


Part VIII: The Remains

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [29]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Gen, Homesickness, Interrogation, Siblings, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia undergoes the inquisition. Hisana makes her decision. Ichigo wishes to return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part VIII: The Remains

 

**Part VIII: Picking Up the Pieces**

_Farewell, my old fan._  
Having scribbled on it,  
What could I do but tear it  
At the end of summer?

_—Matsu Basho_

* * *

 

**The Remains**

It begins in quiet. Oppressive silence falls around her like a blanket. A wet, sopping blanket. Her breath catches in her throat, and the coldness of the air caught inside her lungs threatens to strangle her.

Sometimes the emptiness strangles you. Sometimes it pulls the life right out of your heart. Like now.

Searching.

Her large blue eyes search the chamber. All she sees is the black. All she feels is the dark. The fluttering movement of silhouettes tells her what she already knows: There are eyes, and they are focused on her and her alone.

Rukia sucks in a deep, tentative breath. Maybe it will be her last? Maybe it will be her first, born anew? Bearing the truth. Maybe it will unlock the fate that has imprisoned her?

Probably not.

Damn her inner pragmatist.

Damn these archaic procedures.

Damn it all to hell!

"What did Aizen seek?"

There it is. There is the question. It is stark. But, she can't say that she isn't expecting it.

She has been waiting for it. Baited breath. Tensed muscles. Fingers gone cold with anticipation. Knuckles white with worry.

Her lips tremble. It is slight, imperceptible. But her mind—the hell that it has become—does not miss it, and, as ridiculous as it may seem, she believes they can see her fear. All those eyes. Those insidious, unseeable eyes!

"I—I—I—" the words tumbling forth are easily forgiven. A girl—only 150 years of age—would surely stumble after something so tragic, so horrifying.

Rukia does not forgive her inelegance. She is a Kuchiki, after all.  _Elegance_  isn't aspirational. It is simply  _done_. It is  _demanded_. It is as natural as  _breathing_.

Rukia lifts her head and beings anew. "I do not know." The earnest reply leaves her breathless. Sometimes truth is worse than speculation—worse than lying. A white lie would've done. The former captain—or is he still Captain?—she doesn't quite know. Has the Gotei 13 disavowed him, yet? Surely, there must be a procedure for that? There is a procedure for everything else.

Either way—Captain Aizen's, or Traitor Aizen if such is the case—his motives are clear: He seeks to destroy the status quo of Soul Society. Aizen found something about the Gotei 13—or, at the very least, the Central 46 Chambers—very unsavory. What it was, exactly, Rukia does not know. She was never privy to such thoughts.

"He grabbed me by my neck, and he seemed very  _intense_." Silently, she rebukes herself for her lack of  _insight_. Yes, Aizen was very intense. He was very intense about everything, though. He read  _books_  intensely. He went about his duties as Captain of the Fifth with quiet  _intensity_.

 _Perhaps they should have known from the beginning. The Quiet Ones._  Rukia's inner pragmatist distracts her with thoughts, unhelpful and fleeting.

"Go on, Rukia," Suì-Fēng's voice loses its edge. The Captain of the Second sounds almost  _sisterly_.

"He was interrupted. He said something about a Hōgyoku." Rukia doesn't understand, but it appears that her confusion keeps good company. If the stirring and swaying of shadows is any indication, no one understands.

"I see," Suì-Fēng says nonplussed, not quite comprehending but feigning an inkling better than most. "Is that all, Rukia Kuchiki?"

Rukia gives a solemn nod of her head. It is her true testimony. She knows nothing else, except for the fact that the strange word that she has uttered—Hōgyoku—will begin an undertaking unto itself. Hopefully, it is an undertaking that will not require her assistance.

"Any more questions?" Suì-Fēng turns to the floor.

Bitter silence releases Rukia Kuchiki. It is a disquieting bookend, Rukia thinks to herself as Suì-Fēng dismisses her.

Rukia's solemnity lingers inside her as she exits the chamber. The relief that is due to her never comes. Only the chill of the dank hall fills her in its stead.

Free from the gazes and questions, she loiters outside those large, imposing doors. Her back presses against the chill of the stone. She can feel the dimples of the rock against her scapula, against her skin through her Shihakushō.

"You did well."

In a second, her body jerks toward the sound of that familiar baritone. Once her eyes find the source of the voice, her dread disperses into respectful  _terror_. "Brother," she murmurs, voice and breath half-stuck in her throat. She sputters, inelegantly, but manages to cover with a light cough.

He does not question her horror at his suddenness. He merely approaches her and stops with an approving nod. "You may return to the manor."

As much as it sounds like a suggestion, Rukia  _knows_  Brother is being polite. It is an order. Period.

"What of the drifters?" She almost winces when she hears her voice echo through the chamber. It is asking too much of Brother, but she cannot help it. She owes  _so much_  to Ichigo and his motley band of friends. It would be akin to betrayal to forget their sacrifices so soon.

Brother, however, does not flinch. He does not speak, either. Just as before.

And, just as before, Rukia takes his silence as tacit approval. The drifters may remain with her in the manor.

"Thank you, Brother!" Rukia bows at his back.

He pauses as her words of gratitude wash over him. There is a tremor in his motion—a tremor that she has never seen before.

 _Something…._  Rukia's eyes narrow as she watches Brother begin again, toward the doors to the grand chamber.  _Something bad._

Dread, dark and deplorable, enters her.

_Why?_

* * *

Hisana stares into the middle distance. While the summer burns on like a wildfire, winter has already begun to seep into her essence, transforming her soul piece by piece into a frosty mist. Frozen in thought, her eyes, clear and glassy, stare into the horizon, as if the setting sun holds the answers to her questions.

"Milady," the steward beckons from the threshold to the manor. His voice is thin in her mind, a hollow echo.

Slowly, she glances over her shoulder to find him. Worriment blanches his wizened features. "Milady," he repeats himself, already aware that the fog in her mind is thick. "Please, come inside."

Hisana returns her gaze to the sun, hoping it will warm her thoughts, but knowing it will not. Hope is such a fickle thing.

Elegantly, she gathers herself up. Hands, trained from years of practice, travel down her legs just  _in case_. Silence falls around her, like twilight falls upon a tired world, and her steps, swift but small, carry her to the manor.

"Yes." Her voice is a mere whisper as she passes the steward. It breaks her heart to end the silence. It was such a perfect companion to her noisy thoughts.

"Lord Kuchiki," he murmurs to her back.

"Of course," she says, half-expecting the response.

"He grows restless."

"I've made my decision," she says, absently, as if the words are not her own, as if the  _decision_  is not hers to make. It isn't. Captain Kyōraku made this decision for her, and his request for her consent was a mere formality.

"I believe he already knows in his heart," the steward says, reading his Lady's expression well.

Hisana gives a curt nod of her head. The truth of it is too much to bear. She doesn't even know where to begin—how to articulate the message that she sent to Captain Kyōraku. The acceptance of his offer felt so….

 _Unfulfilling_.

It is a forced maneuver, and news of this maneuver will send ripples through the nobility.

Hisana  _dreads_  the announcement. The highborn have been less than  _charitable_  toward her. The instant they realize that the Kuchiki Clan will involve itself with the restructuring of the Central Chambers is the instant that she expects the death threats to begin anew.

It is inadvisable. She knows this. Byakuya knows this. More importantly, Shunsui knows this.

The Kuchiki Clan has made its supremacy known in terms of its market force. It is perhaps the wealthiest clan, even among the other Four Noble Families. Then, there is the issue that Byakuya is a captain of the Gotei. To place the matriarch of the family at the helm of the new, hopefully  _improved_  Chambers looks like an impermissible  _power grab_.

It isn't.

Hisana doesn't want the power, and her husband's ambitions lie elsewhere.

It doesn't matter. The clans will draw their own conclusions. Poor conclusions. Hateful conclusions.

The only solace that Hisana can possibly find is that the Kuchiki Clan will find some measure of happiness at this responsibility. Their leader is the head of the Sixth Squadron, and she will be assisting with reassembling the Chambers. All three legs of the iron triangle that rule Soul Society are represented among the Kuchiki, giving them an unreasonable degree of influence.

Even then….

The steward draws back the doors to the library, where her husband sits quietly gazing into the parchment of a sizable tome.

She bows politely for him.

Byakuya frowns at her formality, but tradition steels his tongue. "Enter," he says, breath caught in a sigh. He does not spare her a single look. Instead, his gaze remains rooted to the faded ink sprawling across the yellowing pages. Some word—perhaps a meaningless word—stays his gaze.

 _He is displeased_ , she observes silently to herself. Yet, she is not surprised. She knew of his displeasure from the first of it, and, when he returned after Rukia's inquisition, his  _reiatsu_  spoke volumes on his displeasure. It began as an oppressive uneasiness before morphing into something more akin to a hurricane.

_If his fury is a hurricane, then this must be the eye._

Indeed, there is a calm stillness to the room as she kneels before her husband. "Milord," she murmurs, tucking her chin to her neck and lowering her eyes to the straws of the tatami.

"You have made your decision." Slow and even, his gaze rises from his reading and settles on her.

Hisana, however, hasn't the heart to return his look. "Milord," she whispers, hoping the sound of her voice will raise her spirits.

It does not.

He waits, patiently, for her answer. When her gaze flits to find her husband, Hisana draws in a breath of relief. The anger, the consternation, the hardened stare and straight lines that haunted her thoughts are not playing across Lord Byakuya's features. He stares at her with a probing expression. There is a touch of concern pulling his brows together in a furrow, but it is an expression of love, of understanding.

"I accepted." The words fall with the weight of lead from her lips. She cringes at their sound, and she wishes the answer were different for his sake and for hers.

The lines of his face smoothen, and he shuts his eyes. It is momentary, but Hisana cannot help but notice the black cloud that seemingly passes across his visage. When he opens his eyes, his gray eyes are clear. "I see."

He doesn't understand, she thinks.

He doesn't  _see_ , she knows.

But, he is a gentleman. He knows that she has been forced into this decision. He knows that she cannot refuse. And, he will not distress his wife because he loves her.

"Forgive me," she whispers, dropping her head and shutting her eyes.

When Hisana musters the courage to meet his gaze, she finds only an empty room.

* * *

"I am leaving," Ichigo announces, not asks.

Yoruichi gives a slow shake of her head. Her arms are folded against her breast, and her eyes are squeezed shut. She cannot muster enough energy to pity Ichigo or his foolishness. Not today, at least. "Not a chance," she murmurs to herself.

"If not now, then when?" the teenager asks, brazenly. There is a fire in his stare—a fire that heats the soul. Yoruichi remembers that fire well. It is white-hot and consuming. It is the impatience of youth. It is the bravado of the callow. She felt it once and remembers its intoxication.

"Not today," she says, refusing to bend under the boy's vigor.

"Says who?" Ichigo huffs, before turning his back to her. He folds his arms against his chest in a grand spectacle of disdain.

"The Gotei 13. You," Yoruichi flourishes the last word with a small wave of her hand to the  _entire gaggle of teenagers_ , "are persons of interest for the time being."

"What the hell does that mean?" Ichigo's voice is bladed, sure to cut lesser men.

It doesn't cut Yoruichi.

"It means that we are under investigation," Ishida observes rather drily. To punctuate the simplicity of his logic, the Quincy carefully adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Ichigo hates the gleam of the Quincy's lenses catching the light. It means he's let his emotion—raw and immensely insensitive—get the better of his judgment.

"I don't care," Ichigo digs his heels further into the ground. His fingertips bury themselves into the loose fabric of his black robes.

"Your opinion, fortunately, does not carry much currency here," Yoruichi says, eyes bright with amusement.

"To Kuchiki manor?" Orihime asks, hoping her blinding optimism will calm Ichigo's temper.

A devious smile curls Yoruichi's lips up. "To Kuchiki manor for the time being."

Ichigo perks up at the implication that –just maybe—he and his friends are not doomed to spending the rest of their days in Soul Society. If Yoruichi has a plan, then he is game.


End file.
